


Germ Theory

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale has weaponized kindness, Caretaking, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fever, Happy Ending, Other, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Recovery, Sick Character, Sickfic, as a treat, illness recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: Turns out demons can get the flu -- and Crowley shows up at the bookshop with a whopping case. Aziraphale responds with the level of dramatics one would expect from him. So does Crowley, for that matter.(Cue a very sick demon, a very worried angel, a serious illness and the long recovery therefrom.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 300





	Germ Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to the anon who suggested sick!fic when I was casting about for some nice h/c to write for Crowley! This story was a gift and a dream to write, and I had so much fun. I hope you all enjoy reading it, too.

Aziraphale settled into his chair with a contented sigh. Well, what passed for 'settled' for him, which was admittedly still a posture not seen since steel-boned corsetry was a thing, but that was what was comfortable for him, so there you wiggly old snake.

He took rather a fierce sip of tea, on account of his thoughts having turned to _him_. The _adversary_. Oh, not the Adversary, the King of Doomed Souls or whatever his full title was; Aziraphale didn't much worry about that one. He was doing about as well as any teenage boy did, these days. It was his own personal adversary, the demon to his angel, his hereditary enemy. The sand in the smoothly-spinning gears of his life.

And, all right, the love of said life, but Aziraphale didn't much feel a lot of that just now, not, as one might put it, at the top of his mind. He and Crowley had been enemies and friends for going on six thousand years now, so it wasn't  _unusual_ for them to have a little tiff and need to take a few days, weeks, months or centuries off from one another. Perfectly healthy thing in a relationship.

Mind, he wasn't sure what they'd argued  _about_ , but then there didn't generally need to be an about. They could irritate each other from precisely opposite points of the globe, simply by existing.

Aziraphale opened his book and took another sip of tea, enjoying the delightful quiet. No loud music on the record player, no beep-boop-beep of a mobile phone. No whinging. Just – quiet.

(Well, as quiet as one got in Central London, but all the noise was Out There and not In Here, and that was quite good enough for the Principality Aziraphale.)

He took another moment to savour being alone, doing exactly as he liked with no colour commentary, and dove into his book, rapidly losing himself in the story. Good old Sir (or Saint) Thomas More. Pity about the beheading and all.

Aziraphale read through the afternoon, freshening his cup of tea and switching to a martini when the clock struck five. Cocktails still felt a bit new and racy for him, but he did like the taste.

He left at precisely seven in the evening for the ten-minute walk to his favoured sushi place, where he was served the most delightful omakase, and chatted happily with the chef as he enjoyed the subtle, layered flavours without a demon next to him building things out of chopsticks and absolutely  _soaking_ his rolls in soy sauce.

Following supper, he took a twilight stroll the long way home, breathing in the air of London and feeling utterly and wholly at peace with the world and himself. When he got back to the bookshop, everything was still quiet and dark, a little bit dusty, and  _home_ .

Aziraphale selected something rather newer for his evening read, quite a well-reviewed history of early Medieval Britain. He did so like to see who got what right – and, more importantly, wrong.

There was a tiny trickle of missing the demon; Crowley liked to curl up of an evening with his head in Aziraphale's lap, and it was tender and kind. The trickle was also fleeting. Besides, they would cool off and come together again in time; they always did.

So passed several days in Aziraphale's life, all in contentment and appreciation of the best things the world had to offer. Quiet reigned, and he felt settled in his corporation again; settled in the world. He fed the ducks and sold precisely three books, and went to a new cafe that did absolutely scrummy Bakewell tarts. So all was well, and all things were well.

It was on a Sunday evening, when a steady rain fell and all good-thinking people were inside with a cup of cocoa and a good book, when a loud thump on his front door startled Aziraphale into looking up.

“Goodness,” he said aloud, and set his things aside, rising and going to see what was happening. Likely just a tumbled-over bin or somesuch. Ugh, why had Crowley invented wheelie-bins? Honestly, just another irritating thing about him.

Aziraphale opened the door, and Crowley's unconscious body tumbled in, straight into his arms.

He gasped, and would have staggered backwards if he hadn't had an armful of demon holding him in place. Crowley was supposed to be clubbing in Ibiza! Or making trouble in America! Or whatever he did when he wasn't with Aziraphale!

“Oh, my dear,” he breathed, and snapped into action. As per usual, the poor thing didn't weight more than a sneeze, and he lifted Crowley into his arms, getting him inside out of the rain. Of course he was soaked to the skin, his poor love, what on _earth_ had happened to him? 

Aziraphale's wings snapped out, curling protectively around his beloved, but there wasn't a hint of demon in the air – besides the usual, of course. Whatever had happened to Crowley, it wasn't around him any longer.

“There now,” Aziraphale murmured. “Soon have you set to rights, my darling one.” He knew Crowley could sense love, a little, and hoped he could pick up on the waves of it pouring off of Aziraphale in the moment. 

He got Crowley inside and upstairs to his little bedroom, settling the bedraggled demon on his bed. A snap, and the wet clothes were dispatched, Crowley was dried off, his hair braided back out of his face, and he was dressed in warm flannel pyjamas. Aziraphale even made them a lovely dark navy blue that was almost black.

Crowley started to move a little, and moaned.

“Shh, shh. You're safe.” Aziraphale sat on the bed and took Crowley's hand, kissing the knuckles. “Everything's all right, darling.”

Crowley opened one eye, and it seemed a brighter, sicker yellow than usual. “S'ry angel,” he said in a voice like sandpaper.

“None of that, then. You did the exact right thing. I'll take care of you. You just got a chill, love, that's all.”

Crowley shook his head, and shivered mightily. “Sick,” he managed.

A chill ran down Aziraphale's spine. “ _How_ ?”

“Hell.” Crowley's smile turned sickly. “Fucking demons. Even we've got germs. Chased a few of 'em off. Caught something.” He coughed, and shivered, and curled up, shuddering. “Like the flu. Worse.”

Cold settled in Aziraphale's heart. Flu killed. Flu killed even strong, healthy people. Like Crowley.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, and touched Crowley's forehead and he was burning up _when had that happened?_ When had he started to run a fever? Why hadn't Aziraphale noticed in that instant? What a stupid being he was. “What do you need?”

Crowley shook his head and shuddered again, and moaned a little, hugging himself tightly. “Dunno. Get sick in hell. They. Throw you in a corner. Damp. Dunno what helps.” He smiled weakly. “Damp and stink and dripping water don't.”

“Lucky for you, there's none of that here,” Aziraphale advised, trying to sound cheerful. “I've got you, love. Just...just fight it for me. Do you promise? Please just fight hard.”

“'Course, angel.” Crowley shivered again, and Aziraphale very carefully gathered him close. He'd get Crowley under the covers in a moment, get him nice and warm and cozy, but right now the way the demon was hugging himself was doing something to Aziraphale's heart, so he cradled Crowley in his lap and kissed his burning brow.

“S'ry,” Crowley mumbled again. “We're fighting.”

“This is more important. _You're_ more important, heart of mine. We can fight again when you're better,” Aziraphale said. Because Crowley _would_ get better, of course he would. It sounded like he'd been ill in Hell before, and well, he'd survived _that_ , and all the ugliness and cold and damp and awful things down there. Of course he'd be fine in a cozy little bedroom with tea and water and blankets to keep him warm and a very, very worried angel to see to his every want. Of course he would.

Aziraphale cradled him a little bit longer, until the terrible shivering was eased somewhat, then got Crowley under the covers. He tucked the quilt up to his neck, and added another pillow under his head. Crowley immediately curled onto his side, and Aziraphale took the pillow he himself used, and got it into Crowley's arms. That usually relaxed the demon, and it did this time as well.

“We'll see this through,” Aziraphale promised him, and kissed his temple. “Sleep hard, darling. That's what's always best for you. Don't worry about anything, and sleep, and let me take care of you.” He checked Crowley's temperature, frowned, and went to go gather everything he would need to nurse Crowley back to health.

He came back, in the end, after many trips, with a stack of blankets, a hot-water bottle, a pitcher of ice water and a glass with a straw, a stack of flannels soaking in cool water mixed with rubbing alcohol, a fresh set of pyjamas just in case, and a laptop Crowley had left behind one day that could be set up to show films. He checked Crowley's forehead, found it almost painfully hot to the touch, and started in with the flannels.

Crowley yelped at the first touch, but Aziraphale kissed his hair and he quickly soothed, perhaps because his skin did cool to the touch. He still had a fever, but not as high. Human medicine didn't really work on them, not well anyway, but  _physics_ sure did.

Aziraphale wiped his face and neck and hands until Crowley had settled down and relaxed in his sleep, his breathing going deeper. Good; if he could sleep, he would heal, and he wouldn't be so uncomfortable.

Fever brought a little under control and his sweetheart fast asleep, Aziraphale settled in a chair and tried to do anything other than worry. He'd brought a stack of books with him as well, of course, but it was hard to read when every time Crowley so much as twitched, Aziraphale was on high alert.

He woke again a few hours later, wriggling beneath the blankets and shivering again, curling up into a little ball. Aziraphale was right there with extra blankets, and settled a great, thick woollen one atop the quilt.

“Better?” he asked softly, and Crowley opened his eyes blearily.

“Yeah,” he whispered and winced, one hand swimming up from under the covers to touch his throat.

“Oh, no. Hurts?” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale touched his neck, wincing at the swollen glands (he wasn't even sure they _had_ glands but here they were), the heat of fever that still lingered. “Sit up and have a little water, that might help.”

Crowley closed his eyes and visibly gathered his strength, pushing himself up to sitting position, and immediately slumping back against the headboard.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmured. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize...” He slipped an arm around Crowley's shoulders and got him into a far more comfortable position, sitting up enough to sip ice water, but not having to hold himself up at all.

He took a few sips obediently, then turned his head. Aziraphale took the chance to wipe his face and hands down again, and Crowley shivered a little, but sighed, and seemed a little more comfortable.

“It's all right,” Aziraphale murmured again. He tried not to think of Crowley this ill but in Hell, ignored and neglected by all around him, finding a corner to hide in...

He shook himself out of maundering when tears prickled at his eyes. Going all weepy wasn't going to help anything.

What did help, he thought, was kissing Crowley's forehead and helping him lie down again, tucking him snugly under the blanket and giving him Aziraphale's pillow to hug again.

Aziraphale thought Crowley might have fallen back asleep, but no – his eyes were open and he was smiling a little.

“What is it, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, smiling back. “Can I get you anything?”

Crowley shook his head, and hugged the pillow tighter. “Y'r so nice.”

“Well, I _am_ an angel.” Aziraphale tucked a curl that had gotten free behind Crowley's ear. “Part of the job description.”

“Sure about that?”

Aziraphale's smile grew. “Quite sure. You're very silly when you're feverish, dear.”

“Am not.” Crowley's smile was achingly sweet. It wasn't that Aziraphale hadn't seen it before, it's just – well, perhaps he hadn't expected to see it again for some time.

“As you say.” Aziraphale rested a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, smiling instinctively in return. “I'm so glad you came to me, love. We'd never argue so bad I wouldn't want you here and safe and loved while you're ill.”

“'Course.” Crowley's eyes drifted shut. “'s a quarrel. Fun fightin' with you. More fun making up.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “We'll have to have an extra argument when you're better, then. So we can make up properly.” He leaned over and kiss Crowley's brow. “Hush now. I'll keep watch.”

“Mmmm.” With one more blinding smile, Crowley was fast asleep.

Aziraphale checked the hot water bottle, and made sure it was quite toasty before he settled it again at Crowley's feet. A cup of tea for himself, and he was able to actually sit and read while Crowley slept.

Near midnight, he looked up and drew in a sharp breath. What a bloody selfish fool he was. Crowley was shivering, bathed in sweat, and had begun to move. No, to thrash, trying to get out of the pile of blankets.

“Shh, shh, easy,” Aziraphale soothed, folding everything back. He tried to take Crowley's hand, but he cried out at the touch and jerked away, and little wonder – his skin was truly burning up, far, far too hot for his corporation.

“Oh, forgive me,” Aziraphale said, and bit his lip hard as he returned to bathing Crowley with the mix of alcohol and water, the sharp smell grounding him. It evaporated quickly, and ought to have cooled him off, but didn't.

Aziraphale quickly got him out of the pyjama shirt and bathed his chest and back, trying not to mind how quick Crowley's breaths were. They didn't need to breathe anyway, not really.

He worked as fast as he could, draping a flannel over Crowley's brow and wrapping two more around his wrists, wiping him down generously. A miracle would dry the bed, and the sheets were already soaked with the demon's sweat.

Crowley moaned and opened his eyes, but Aziraphale wasn't sure he could even seen him.

“It's all right,” he tried to soothe. “Crowley, dearest, everything is all right. You're in the bookshop. Nice and safe and...safe,” he finished lamely.

“ _Zira_.” His wail was pathetic, scared and sad, and Aziraphale's wings snapped into being without thinking. He mantled one over Crowley, half-kneeling on the bed beside him so that they were sheltered under pearly whiteness. Perhaps that would help, somehow?

“I'm here. I'm here. It's Aziraphale. I'm here, Crowley, I won't leave you, never leave you, you know that.” He smiled softly. “Didn't we prove that, darling?”

Crowley moaned, and coughed, and rolled over, still restless. “Face. Have to switch. Keep you safe.”

“We did, sweetheart. That's all over. I...I was safe as houses. Had a nice little bath even, remember?”

Crowley chuckled, and his eyes cleared for a moment. “That what you're calling it?”

“There you are.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “It is. Oh, love.”

Crowley reached out for him weakly, and as Aziraphale leaned over to embrace his thin, burning body, three things happened. Crowley's fever soared so that Aziraphale truly feared for him. He felt his beloved demon go limp, completely passed out. And, moments later, Crowley's fever broke in a flood of sweat that soaked them both and the bed and Aziraphale didn't care  _one jot_ .

“Oh, my darling. My poor darling.” How long had Crowley been ill before he found Aziraphale? Or did demonic flu just work that quickly? Little matter. Nothing mattered at all, except that Crowley was easy in his arms now. It was the matter of a single miracle to dry them both, and the bedclothes. To get rid of the wet flannels, which might be needed later, but just now were nothing but clammy and a little warm themselves.

Aziraphale promised himself he'd tuck Crowley back into bed in a moment. Two moments. He curled a wing around him, ensuring he was cozy and safe and warm. He kept his arms around him, ensuring the same. Just a few minutes, to hold the being he loved above all others.

Besides, Crowley was fast asleep. It wouldn't matter to him.

It was a few hours before Aziraphale could wrench himself away, and he was afraid Crowley was somehow worse for being held against his warm body, instead of between cool sheets. He was still a little warmer than usual, his lips cracked and dry, but he also still slept. Aziraphale arranged him under the covers with his pillow to hug again, though without the hot water bottle. And, with a feather-soft touch, a little breathless at the intimacy, he rubbed salve on Crowley's mouth to ease the dry skin.

Crowley woke again at dawn, eyes blinking open clear and seeing everything. Aziraphale smiled at him, and he smiled back, and Azirphale's heart leapt. Surely the worst was over now.

Crowley made to talk and his eyes went wide in pain. He swallowed and winced, and Aziraphale clucked over him softly.

“Hush now. Your poor throat. Here, this helped last time.” He lifted Crowley to sit back against the pillows. Poor thing, he was weak as a baby bird; Aziraphale even made sure his head was supported. At least millennia of taking care of humans through their illnesses had given him something of a knack for nursing.

The ice water just made Crowley wince, but he drank half the glass nonetheless before settling back with a sigh.

“Any better?”

“A little,” Crowley said, and his eyes flew wide, the pain obvious.

“You _can_ just nod,” Aziraphale pointed out, and his heart sang when Crowley glared at him. “Well you can,” he added, and kissed his sweetheart between the eyes. “Poor love, you've been through it. Your fever...” he shivered. “Well, that's all over now. How, uh. How long does it usually take to run its course?”

Crowley shrugged. His hands lay on his lap on top of the covers, and he shifted one to splay all five fingers against the blanket.

“Five days?”

Crowley nodded, then shrugged again. 'In Hell,' he mouthed. Well, yes, one would rather linger in  _that_ situation, Aziraphale reckoned. So maybe five days. Maybe less.

He narrowed his eyes.

“How long were you ill before you came to me?”

Crowley looked so guilty, Aziraphale couldn't even manage anger. “Oh, love,” he said softly, and cupped Crowley's face in his hands. “I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry if you ever thought you couldn't come to me. If you dreamed, for a second, I wouldn't drop everything for you. That's my failing.”

Crowley went tense, and shook his head.

“We'll talk about it when you can talk,” Aziraphale promised. “How long, love?”

Crowley moved his hand to extend only two fingers.

“All right. That's not so bad.” Aziraphale touched his hand, and kissed his cheek. He never wanted to stop being close to Crowley, to give him any kind of comfort he could manage. “So perhaps another two days.” Privately, he wondered if it might be more, really. Crowley was so weak...

He got a small smile for his fussing, and Crowley looking altogether softer than Aziraphale had ever seen him before. He must really be poorly, to bring down  _all_ his barricades.

Crowley reached out a hand, covering Aziraphale's, his fingers curling in.

“Hullo there,” Aziraphale said softly. “Would you like to be held?”

Crowley nodded hard, and it wasn't like he needed to ask twice. Aziraphale moved further onto the bed and slipped an arm around Crowley's shoulders, easing him a little closer, careful of tender, feverish skin. His heart did a wobbly thing when Crowley pressed into him, just for a moment, before going soft and still again.

“I have you,” he murmured. “Just rest, and let me worry about everything else. The worst is over, my dear, and you're doing splendidly.”

Crowley smiled and rested with his head in the crook of Aziraphale's neck, his body the lightest of weights in Aziraphale's arms. He was a little warm still, and his throat was obviously terribly sore, but he breathed deep and evenly, and wasn't afraid of anything, so Aziraphale would take it and be grateful.

Crowley proved to be an incredibly good patient, at least at first. Almost frighteningly so. He slept most of the day, or otherwise lay quietly in bed. His cheeks were red with a low, lingering fever, a bright spot on his pale skin so that he almost looked flush with health, until one noticed his tired eyes, or the stillness of a body usually constantly in motion. He nodded whenever Aziraphale offered him anything, though – help sitting up, water, a bit of ice cream in his favourite flavour to soothe his throat. He smiled and accepted, eyes a little wide. He was deeply, achingly vulnerable, and Aziraphale spun a web of comforting, safe, soft things around him.

It was when he was helping Crowley change into fresh pyjamas the second day after his fever broke that Aziraphale finally understood. He slipped on the soft t-shirt and he and Crowley smiled at one another, and he couldn't resist a little kiss. Crowley's lips were still sore and cracked, so Aziraphale kissed the corner of his mouth, and laughed when Crowley's arms crept around his waist.

“Still tempting even like this,” he said, and Crowley grinned at him. He lifted a hand to press against Aziraphale's cheek, and the little gesture of affection made it all clear.

Crowley never asked for anything. Not really. Sure, he whinged and moaned and loudly spoke of things missing in his life, but he almost never  _asked Aziraphale_ . He offered lunches and dinners, long nights spent snuggling on the sofa or in bed. When Aziraphale requested his company to the opera, he was always very happy to go along. But when there was a cinema revival, he just made noises about it, and Aziraphale accompanied him by a kind of agreement. He didn't  _ask_ for things. Aziraphale began to doubt if he even knew how to do so.

“Love,” he said softly. “You know if there's anything you want, you only have to ask, right?”

Crowley nodded contentedly, and Aziraphale revised his hypothesis. Crowley was such a good patient because it was the first time he'd ever been one. Perhaps he didn't know what was lacking.

Aziraphale could have dumped him in bed and left him alone, and it would be not just a step up, but a whole flight of stairs up from how he'd weathered illness before, and the thought of it made him shiver.

“Zira?” Crowley whispered, moving to look at him.

“Hush now, your throat's still store,” Aziraphale said absently, and shook himself a little. “I'm fine, love. I just.” He sighed, and kissed Crowley's brow. “Thinking about how things were for you...before. Wishing I could have helped then, too.”

“ _Past_ ,” Crowley said firmly, and Aziraphale was about to scold him for talking, but this little flash of his defiant demon made his heart glow, so he didn't. Not at the moment, anyway.

He made sure to double down on anticipating any want or need, though. If Crowley was awake and Aziraphale not otherwise occupied, he was held and snuggled and kissed. Aziraphale re-braided his hair at least once a day, and usually rather more than that, keeping it neat and clean and tied back. There was always fresh water at hand, and a nice little treat, ice cream or granita or a little savoury broth, should Crowley grow peckish. Hot tea and cocoa, of course, as well. And Aziraphale learned how the laptop worked, and could put on old films or cartoons or whatever Crowley liked to give him something to amuse himself with when Aziraphale had to dash away from his bedside to refresh something, or venture out for groceries, or anything like that.

(Needless to say, the shop remained quite closed to all.)

And through it all Crowley lay still and quiet, only his bright eyes moving and tracking Aziraphale. He seemed happy enough, and his fever finally receded, his throat getting a little better each day. He remained terribly weak, though, and often by the end of the day Aziraphale had to help him sit up, or lay down, and when Crowley wrapped his hand around Aziraphale's, it was with a shadow of his usual sturdiness.

“Is this what it's always like?” Aziraphale asked softly, on a morning when Crowley had been strong enough to sit up and drink a big cup of cocoa, and even stretch a little and crawl into Aziraphale's lap.

“Mmm. Guess so.” Crowley shrugged. “Forced myself to get strong, fast.” He grinned. “I'm malingering,” he informed Aziraphale.

“Oh is that what this is?” Aziraphale asked. Possibly Crowley _thought_ he was doing so, but the way he'd fallen asleep last night, between one breath and the next, and the way he'd barely been able to help Aziraphale settle him under the covers told another story.

“Very demonic of me, I thought,” Crowley said, nuzzling Aziraphale's neck.

“Horrifically. Keeping an angel of the Lord too busy to do good works,” Aziraphale agreed. He might as well play along; it _was_ kind of cute. And it meant Crowley felt safe enough to rest and recover properly. 

“That's my brilliant plan.” Crowley smiled and cuddled in Aziraphale's arms, easy and safe and happy, and Aziraphale was so glad for it he could cry. Instead, he kissed Crowley's forehead, feeling for any return of the fever, but his skin was cool and dry. The worst was definitely over; he just had to get his strength back.

A few days later he was well enough to get out of bed, if Aziraphale helped him, though even then just as far as a chair by the window. There was pale sunlight flooding in, though, and Crowley basked in it.

Aziraphale knelt by his feet, tucking a blanket around his legs, and thought he might not ever stop smiling. Not for a few days, at least. His Crowley was getting better, any fears were over, and now he only needed rest and a bit of spoiling.

Well, that was the idea, anyway.

“I'm perfectly healthy again, angel,” Crowley said in his exaggeratedly patient voice, the one designed to grate on Aziraphale's nerves.

“Oh really?” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “Then get up and walk out of here.”

“Don't want to,” Crowley said loftily.

“Because you can't! Crowley, you can hardly make it downstairs without leaning on me!” Aziraphale shook his head. “You know you can stay here as long as you need. Longer.”

“You could just miracle me to my own flat.”

“Don't bloody tempt me, demon,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. Crowley was feeling better, which apparently in his stupid demonic pea-brain meant that he was right as rain and could just _go home_ where Aziraphale knew _for a fact_ he barely had a water glass, let alone any interesting little nibbles. Did he have more than the single quilt on his bed? Probably not! Anything could happen to him and Aziraphale wouldn't be right there!

“I'm trying here, darlin'.” The lazy nickname snapped Aziraphale back to the present, and he gave Crowley an exhausted look.

“Now you see why I got dumped in a corner,” he joked.

Oh.  _Oh_ , was this what this was about? Well. Aziraphale did so like it when he could be sincere  _and_ drive Crowley up a fucking wall. It saved ever so much time.

“No,” he said clearly, and took Crowley's hands in his.

“No you don't see? I can be more annoying...”

“No,” Aziraphale repeated. “ _Our side_ doesn't work like that.”

Crowley blinked, and going by the expression in his eyes (back to their usual gold, healthy and bright and clear and thank you, anyone who's listening, thank you for his health), he was getting a glimmering of what he'd got himself into. “Oh, I, uh --”

“No,” Aziraphale said again. “I mean it. I would _never_ abandon you like they did, no matter what you did. So you might as well get that idea out of your head right now.”

“Um,” Crowley said.

“Do I need to draw analogies with how Heaven treated me?” he asked sweetly.

“No!” Crowley moaned, gazing down at his lap.

Aziraphale, a little drunk on power, leaned in close, moving his hands to rest either side of Crowley's hips. He whispered in his beloved's ear, “Would you ever tell me to 'lose the gut'?”

Crowley yowled and grabbed Aziraphale, falling back onto the bed with him in arms, both of them giving over to laughter.

“I bloody well never _ever_ will and you know it, you horrible angel,” Crowley said, punctuating every other word with a kiss to Aziraphale's face.

“I do,” Aziraphale said smugly, and he kissed Crowley with a tenderness that startled them both. “So please try to believe that I would never abandon you. Never cast you out.” His face softened, as he realized what he was saying. “Oh, Crowley. I love you so much. It's all right, darling. I'll tell you anytime you need to hear it. I'll never stop loving you, and nothing you could do would make me abandon you.”

Crowley nodded smiled a little. “I'll try. To remember.”

“I'll help you,” Aziraphale promised softly. For hadn't Crowley been the one to teach him how to love someone, and help them heal? It was the easiest thing in the world, to adore him and make sure he knew that.

Crowley was a little less impatient after that, though he eagerly met new milestones; soon enough he was able to get around the shop with ease, and then go to lunch at the cafe. The first time, he leaned on Aziraphale's arm for the walk there and back, and took a nap when they got home again, but even the next day was better, and the one after that.

In all, it took nearly a month for Crowley to be his old self. There was a frightening day when he was warm to the touch and restless, and Aziraphale nearly tied him to the bed, but that passed well enough, and the next day he was back to his usual self.

“I ought to go check on my plants,” he finally said. “And you can open up the shop if you want?”

“Oh, it's so late into the day already,” Aziraphale said at 11:42 AM. “Why bother?” He kissed Crowley's cheek. “I'll be here all day, if you want to come back for a glass of wine?”

Crowley promised he'd return in a few hours. He was easy in his skin again, but they stuck close together. Just to make sure, of course.

His plants had behaved themselves (and Aziraphale had popped in to water them every few days) and Crowley found his flat quite in order, if a little chilly and echo-y after so long away. He'd have to stay a few more days at the angel's. Just to keep the chill off his bones, you know how it is. He whistled to himself as he sorted junk mail, bullied an orchid that was taking its sweet time in creating new blossoms, deleted every voice mail un-listened-to, and prepared a few things to take back to Aziraphale's.

Crowley drove the long way back to the bookshop, enjoying being in the Bentley again. He wasn't tired at all – felt quite wonderful, actually, and revelled in it. For all the comforts Aziraphale had given him, and those were legion, being so ill had been deeply painful and uncomfortable, and it was nice to not hurt any longer. And it wasn't like he got  _fewer_ kisses and hugs and other little affections.

“I brought a bottle of Midori I found, thought we could relive the eighties!” he called, letting himself into the bookshop. “Angel?” he called again, when there was no reply.

Crowley found Aziraphale in the back room of the shop, sat in his usual chair. The colour in his cheeks was high, making him look even more angelic. He looked up when Crowley came back, and put a hand to his head.

“What's wrong?” Crowley asked quickly, kneeling in front of him. 

“I don't know.” Aziraphale shook his head, and groaned at the movement. “Aches...”

“Oh, darling.” Crowley touched his brow, and of course it was burning up. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale agreed, smiling weakly. “I'm so sorry, dear boy. I seem to have caught a slight cold.”

Crowley just stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, and got Aziraphale up to bed. Well, at least they didn't have much planned for the next few weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> [dietraumerei.tumblr.com](dietraumerei.tumblr.com)


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